


How These Days Grow Long

by MistressSiM



Category: The Last of Us
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Canonical Character Death, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Physical Abuse, Platonic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2018-04-03 16:06:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4106908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressSiM/pseuds/MistressSiM
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Joel runs his fingertips over the Mark, heated and almost unbearably tender to the touch, a wave of indignant confusion hits him. He realizes, not a second later, that the feeling is not entirely his own. He promptly pulls his shirt back down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Joel (Part One)

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, look! I opened my busy schedule book and a fic fell out! Clumsy me!
> 
> Honestly, I wrote this late last year and then totally forgot about it. As I read over it, all of the ideas I had in store for the story came rushing back, and I finished it. I thought I'd share it here. I don't know if I'll have time to write more, but I definitely want to. Name derived from the Brandi Carlile song "Dying Day". I love that song. It's an ear-worm. You should listen to it, but you might regret it. It'll undoubtedly get stuck in your head.
> 
> TW for violence against a woman towards the end. It's brief, but it's there.

**Mid 2019**

Joel spends at least an hour staring into the broken mirror on the wall. 

The Mark emblazoned on his ribcage, large, and a brilliant, glittering green, proudly proclaims that "ELEANOR" has just been born into a broken world. A comforting warmth pulses from it, mollifying the mounting horror that builds in his chest. When he runs his fingertips of the Mark, heated and almost unbearably tender to the touch, a wave of indignant confusion hits him. He realizes, not a second later, that the feeling is not entirely his own. He promptly pulls his shirt back down. 

A part of him regrets waking up.

 

**Early 2020**

"Am I gonna have to worry about this Eleanor coming after me?"

Tess rubs circles into his Mark with her lightly calloused palm. When he flinches, squirms, and firmly moves her hand away, she smirks.

"No," Joel grunts, pulling her flush against him. She is young, nubile, broken, and just a little too jaded to care beyond how well he can scratch her itch. The care will come later. He isn't her first, he's sure, not by a long shot, but what he is is a warm body, and he's _here_ , so that must be enough. "She's not even a year old."

(He wants to ask her about the blackened remains of a Mark on the back of her leg, but he refrains. It isn't important.)

**Early 2020**

The Stalker's clawed, skeletal fingers grip his shirt with savage strength, pulling roughly at the aged cotton until it gives. Joel feels it rip more than he hears it--a gun going off over his shoulder steals his hearing, and replaces it with a piercing ring. He barely manages to lower his head, closing his eyes and covering his nose and mouth with a hand to avoid the warm spray of infected blood and brain matter that his his flushed skin. He falls back, hands catching in wet blades of wild grass. The earth is damp and reassuringly solid underneath his back. It grounds him as the ringing fades, and someone passes a wet cloth over his face.

"...alright there, Joel?"

"Yeah, yeah. I'm--I"m good."  
Tommy helps him up with a steadying hand on his back. 

"Must have hid underneath the car before she turned. We shoulda checked," Mem admits, apologetic. The rest of the crew murmurs their agreement. Joel ignores them.

"Let's keep goin', ya'll. Gotta get back to the Quarantine Zone before sundown." 

They all give him wide, wild eyed looks in response.

"Come _on_. I'm fine, Goddamn you."  
There was nothing in most of the cars that they looted, and that only serves to add to his high-strung agitation. He feels bad for snapping at them, but he's not about to apologize. 

This pushes them back into motion, though Gabriella shoots him worried looks over her shoulder, and Grisha shakes his head. They continue walking, stopping to collect what supplies they can. Joel catches Grisha collecting things of no real value--pretty trinkets, old CDs, journals written before the outbreak--and wants to dissuade him each time, but the memory of the man's sweet-faced young Bondmate, a cheerful teenager who hasn't yet allowed the world to snuff out his endless optimism and curiosity, and stops dead each time. Grisha knows good and well that he's being watched closely, and gives Joel a sheepish look and a shrug, as if to say, "What can you do?"

Nine years later, and the Earth has already begun to reclaim what humanity took from it. It is both beautiful and heartrendingly sad, Joel muses, that it took less than a decade for nature to swallow the imprint left by a people who ruled it for millennia. Everywhere they look, buildings are green and colorful with vines and leaves and flowers. It creeps between bricks, and bursts through aged, rotted wood completely, artful and destructive. The blacktop of most roads is cracked so badly that driving on them is foolish at best. Flowers and deceptively pretty weeds worm their way into the softened rubber of abandoned car tires. Joel remembers seeing the deep green husk of an evacuation bus turned on its side in the middle of a highway. (Its closed windows had been foggy with a thick cloud of Cordyceps' ubiquitous spores. He wonders about the pasts of the people whose bodies the fungus grew from, if they deserved the fate God dealt them.)

His younger brother's scoffing, humorless laugh pulls him from his thoughts. 

"Why didn't you tell me, Joel?" Tommy questions, moving close.

"What are you talking about, boy?" Joel snaps, irritated. Leave it to Tommy to bring something up without context, like he expects Joel to be able to read his mind. As if if still wants Joel to speak for him.

A thin silence usually befalls the group when they do their work outside the walls of the Boston Quarantine Zone. They talk, but the silence always returns in periodic lulls, comfortable and near sacred. Tommy's abrupt change in attitude taints it, and the air feels full of tension. Mem and Grisha share a nervous look. Gabriella places her hand on Tommy's shoulder, and he gently removes it, frowning. Arguments between Joel and Tommy are rare, but they always leave hurt lingering in their wake.

"I'm talkin' 'bout that," Tommy nearly shouts, pointing. He sways into Joel's space.

Joel hisses at him, " _Keep your voice down_."

His body is primed to use fear as its weapon, programmed to flood him with adrenaline the moment he feels his life is in danger. The Infected rely on heat and sound; Tommy has always been loud. There's an ache beneath his ribcage as he takes quick, shallow breaths, his fists curling by his sides. He feels ready to crawl out of his skin.

"Your _Mark_ , Joel. How long? How old is she? You sure hid it from me for long enough." Tommy scoffs, jabbing the thick pad of his fingertip into the sensitive skin of his Mark. A burning stab of pain dances up the curved length of his rib.

The Stalker had ripped his shirt all the way up his side. He hadn't even thought twice about it, too enraptured by the eerie beauty of the world around them. 

Joel throws his hands up. 

"Eleanor is two years old. Few months until she's three. Why does it matter, Tommy? I didn't have to tell you anything." He doesn't want to say how right his brother is about hiding it from him.

"Is that who you've been seein', when you're not back at the QZ? Sneakin' around, comin' back smiling like the cat that got the cream and then some."

Joel doesn't remember punching his brother, but he will remember the slight burn in his knuckles, and the rush of gratification that it brings. His mind clears, and the dull throb at the nape of his neck is an unwelcome precursor to an intense migraine. Tommy spits blood onto the road--it lands on the proud head of a flower bursting through the concrete, and paints its white petals cherry red. As Tommy turns his wounded eyes on him, bringing a hand up to brush against his red lips, Joel grunts out a flat, " _No._ "

**Mid 2023**

Marlene Sanders is little more than a terrorist with a pretty label. She and her Fireflies are barely better than the government (FEDRA, now, though Joel doesn't respect them enough to even try and and make the distinction). What FEDRA lacks, though, she has in spades: the ability to inspire. She gives Tommy a pendant with his name and a number on it, and most importantly, she gives him hope, and his brother becomes a Firefly.

It's not his place to object, but Joel does regardless, because that's what he's always done when Tommy does something stupid. 

"I gotta do this, Joel," Is all Tommy says, over and over, shaking his head. "I gotta do it." 

He seems serious about it, but Tommy is _always_ serious about something right up until the moment he isn't, but this something could very well get him killed.

"Damn it, Tommy. You're not a kid anymore." 

"Exactly! This is my choice. I can do some real good here. Besides, it's not like I'm leavin' town." 

"May as well be, because the moment you put that on," Joel jabs at Tommy's neck, where the silver chain of his pendant had warmed and molded to his skin. The movement dislodges it, and the angry flush rising to the surface fills in the perfectly white circles it left behind. "You became an illegal alien."

Tommy's face is blank. The only indication that he is angry is the redness blooming on his cheeks and neck. His characteristic flush is part of what endeared him to the girls back at home--he'll practically _glow_ red right down to his chest when he gets worked up, and they loved being able to tell if they had an effect on him. The memory of it just makes Joel angrier, a petty, vindictive brand of angry, and he can't contain the words that fall from his mouth unbidden.

"Goddamnit, Tommy. You always do this shit. I'm always doin' my best to keep you safe. And what do you do? You throw my hard work away, on girls and booze and stupid stuff, and now you wanna--" 

The fisted hand Tommy brandishes in his face stops him cold, because for all that Joel has knocked him around a few times, Tommy wouldn't dare raise a hand to him, in retaliation or otherwise.

"I don't ever wanna see your goddamned face again."

He pulls Joel into a quick, rough embrace. Tommy holds him with a strength Joel was unaware he possessed. It is so tight that his bones creak and the warmth of his brother's body sinks into his skin, and it is undoubtedly goodbye.

**Mid 2024**

Eleanor is just five years old. 

It hits Joel just as he punches a tooth out of a woman's mouth. She is nothing, mostly gutter trash with a purpose (the want for drugs), and she has missed her last two payments. Tess watches on with angry, unsympathetic eyes, arms crossed over her chest.

Eleven years ago, Joel would never have done this. He would have condemned the man that did this. He would have cursed the woman who stood by and watched. Eleven years ago, Joel was not a broken man. Tess would have been twelve years old, smack dab in the middle of Junior High. She would still be in Mississippi, living with her father and the memory of her mother. And it's stupid, but Joel thinks that maybe she and Sarah would have crossed paths, years down the line, became friend or maybe something more, and maybe they'd be happy and healthy and alive. If, eleven years ago, the Cordyceps hadn't set its sights on humanity and adapted accordingly, Joel thinks, there would be no name on his skin.


	2. Joel (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey :)

**Early 2026**

Joel shows up at Grisha's doorstep with a wet shirt pressed to the swollen flesh of his bottom lip.

It's Grisha's bondmate who answers, though, ever cheerful and ready with a small smile on his face, and for just a moment, Joel wants to deck him. Arthur's face quickly twists with concerned horror, and Joel feels like an asshole. This kid has been nothing but helpful.

"Joel, what—Grisha, get down here!—come on in, let's get you cleaned up."

The young man ushers him inside, lips drawn into a tight line of worry.

"Hey there, son. How old are you now?" Joel grunts, as Arthur maneuvers him onto the couch. It's the same question he asks everytime he crashes here.

"Eighteen," Arthur answers, distractedly. "Just wait there. Grisha, bring my kit!"

Arthur bounds up the steps and Joel subsides into the couch, gingerly cradling his—cracked? broken?—ribs. His face burns with pain. He's pretty sure that one of his ribs is at least fractured. His head throbs something fierce. He can't really feel his lips.

"Shit," he hisses. "Shit, Tess."

Joel's mind is a muddled mess of anger and confusion. He throws his head back with another muffled curse. His eyes close,and he dozes to the sound of Grisha and Arthur arguing above his head.

The argument ends with a muffled thump and an abrupt fall of silence. Arthur comes stomping down the stairs on visibly shaky legs. The broad, red handprint in his cheek is as bright as his ginger hair. He carries a large first aid kit. Not for the first time, Joel thanks God for the fact that Arthur had started medical training right before Grisha's concern for his safety had him backing out of his smuggling work.

"Arthur, I'm sorry. Arthur! This shit is the exact reason why I stopped. You can't keep fixing him up each time he comes here all fucked up. Just listen..." Grisha is saying. He's hot on the teen's heels, face white with horror.

"Go away," Arthur says, simply. His face is calm and blank, though he avoids meeting Grisha's gaze. He sways out of reach when Grisha reaches for him, clutching his kit to his chest. Grisha stiffens, shoots Joel a narrow-eyed look, and then walks out. Arthur nudges the door shut with a prominent elbow, sighing. He gives Joel a tight-lipped smile.

"Let's see about you, then."

The boy disinfects each open wound, thankfully declares that nothing needs to be stitched, and decides that Joel's ribs, while definitely bruised, are not fractured. He wraps Joel's knuckles and upper torso with bandages, smears antibiotic gel onto his face, and orders him to lay down. Blushingly, he swipes a flat, red-brown little bug off of the couch's aged cushions. FEDRA cares little for the rash of bedbug infestations that have overtaken Boston of late; in their world, lack of sleep is common, and above all low on their list of concerns. no matter the cause.

"What happened?" Arthur asks, setting his kit down and taking a seat on the floor next to the couch.

"How's—the, the uh," Joel gestures at his face. "You gonna be alright there?"

Arthur shrugs, a quick, abortive thing. Joel knows not to press.

"Why do you always do this? You could send me away." He asks, after the silence drags on too long.

"Would you send me away if you were in my place?" Arthur asks, sounding like he honestly wants to know. Joel almost laughs. Arthur is young, and the world will beat the kindness out of him before long.

He wants to say that yes, he absolutely would send Arthur away, but he settles for, "You have a point."

"And you're bad at deflecting." Arthur points out, not missing a beat. He ties his thick hair up into a messy bun and then hugs his knees to his chest, waiting.

So Joel tells him—how he and Tess fell out, how they had an argument and it lead to competition, how Tess has connections and Joel isn't the best at making nice.

And Arthur laughs at the last thing, mutters something like _no shit_ , and pats Joel on the arm as he pushes his way off of the couch.

"You can sleep here if you don't, um, mind the bugs. Sorry."

"You kiddn' me, this is a luxury." Joel tells him, lying through his teeth.

The smile Arthur gives him in response is kinder than Joel deserves.

 

**Late 2026**

Joel worms his way back into Tess' good graces by accident.

He doesn't retaliate, even though any other scavenger in their right mind would at least try, and he saves the life of some young runner outside the wall because she's small and blonde and his mind plays tricks on him. He finds out later that she works in Tess' circles. When they cross paths again, the girl tells him that Tess is grateful. The next week, Tess approaches him for a job, and he agrees, because what else has he got to do? 

And if he missed the way it felt to have a warm body in bed, sometimes, that is his secret and she shares it with no one. Things settle back into some semblance of normalcy. He still moves out of reach when Tess tries to reach for his Mark.

 

**2028**

FEDRA tightens its fist. 

Leaving the walls has never been an easy feat, but now there are patrols and curfews and sweeps. Residents are expected to be where they are assigned when they are being looked for, so Joel has less time to do his work without risking the roof over his head. As time passes, he gains a reputation, a sometimes roommate, and something of a charge in Arthur, who visits often, and usually with some kind of bruise.

He never stays without offering something in return. Sometimes he brings ration cards, sometimes he brings small and hastily assembled first-aid kits, and sometimes he brings written instruction on treating this or that kind of wound. Joel has found himself escorting him back across town more often than not, chasing the sound of the curfew siren, with the thought in the back of his head that they both could die if they don't learn to stay in their place.

FEDRA requires that registered bond mates live together once they are of age, unless the younger counterpart is orphaned. They wouldn't dare tamper with something like bond marks, not after the amount of riots caused by separating bonded pairs in the early days. They need their people content enough to be compliant. If contentment doesn't work, broken is just fine. Joel considers making Grisha disappear a few times, and he never regrets it.

Morality has little to do with survival these days, but Joel has never much cared for Grisha. He's obnoxious and squirrely and he likes a good fight, but he is good at hiding his true face. When he'd first found Arthur, had been allowed visit every now and then, Joel foolishly thought things had changed. Obviously, he was wrong. So he lets the thought sit.

He mentions this to Arthur once.

Arthur dismisses him, but the silence that follows is deeply contemplative, and his eyes tell a story that is too old for his twenty years.

 

**2033**

Joel's mark hurts.

It's not unbearable. He's had worse. But it burns and it throbs and it's constant. Nothing relieves it. Joel wonders if she is sick, or if she is dying a slow death. The idea is scarier than he thought it would be. He has no interest in finding her, but a small part of him had hopes she would survive to adulthood.

After four days, stops. That is somehow worse than the pain.

Three weeks later, Tess brings him some burbon, and tells him that Robert stole from her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while. life has been really hard for me. it still is, and i can't promise regular updates. but out of everything i've written, this idea has been one of the ones that stuck with me. hope you're up for more. catch me on [my main blog](http://unstoppableflowerboy.tumblr.com/) and [my writing blog](https://sim-writes-sometimes.tumblr.com/) on tumblr if you want to talk.
> 
> preview of next chapter (currently in progress): 
> 
> "Joe?" Riley asks, between laughs. "Joe? You're one of however many people to be born with a mark, and they've got a name like Joe? That's pretty fucking lame."
> 
> "Shut up," Ellie grouses, reaching out to punch her in the shouler. Riley catches her hand, squeezes tight, and laughs. 
> 
> She's taller than Ellie, but sometimes the laugh that leaves her when she's truly amused feels too big for her body.
> 
> Ellie's chest tightens, and there's a warmth on her face that Riley will undoubtedly see and make fun of. She doesn't need this mark, she thinks. She hasn't for years, now.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in love with this trope, partly because of its flexibility. I'm combining a few common ideas (sub tropes for the trope?) for this story.
> 
> -Not everyone is born with a Mark. If someone has a bondmate, their bondmate's name will appear on their skin when they're born. 
> 
> -If someone is born with a Mark, the letters that make up their bondmate's name will appear gradually. For example, if your bondmate's name was Ariadne, you would be born with just the letter "A" somewhere on your skin. The rest of the letters would appear gradually, and at random intervals.
> 
> -Not everyone has a bondmate.
> 
> -Not all bonds are romantic (Joel and Ellie's bond is not, and never will be)
> 
> Mostly, this was an interest check. Please leave your thoughts, any ideas, questions or suggestions, etc. Also, inform me of any glaring mistakes. I read over this twice, but there are probably a few left over.


End file.
